


Conclusion Jumping for the Uninitiated (Don't)

by sorrens



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Azira being the southern pansy and horny on main, Aziraphale is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Fluff and Humor, Human AU, It was meant to be really, M/M, Meet-Cute, You've been warned, or rather meet-cringe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-18 11:56:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21510655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorrens/pseuds/sorrens
Summary: Azira was sharing the elevator with a handsome stranger.When the man says "I love you", of course it'd be rude not to say it back.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 58
Kudos: 331
Collections: HumanDisasterAUs





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> the prompt was  
> "Imagine your OTP: The elevator doors opened and a guy walked in. It was just the two of us and he said "I love you". And I'm not rude so I said "I love you too".  
> He gave me a weird look and pointed at his bluetooth."
> 
> T rating for a healthy dose of explicatives

Azira was already late for his appointment, but he wasn’t going to be that bastard who didn’t acknowledge the request to ‘Hold the lift!’ that rung out through the lobby.

He patiently held the doors open for a tall, gangly man in a suit.

“Thank you,” the man murmured as the doors closed. It was only the two of them, standing side by side. Azira chanced a sideways glance at the other, immediately caught by the way the well-tailored suit clung to the stranger's body.

He’d hold the lift until the end of the world had come and gone just to get another glimpse of that fine—

He cleared his throat and glared at his reflection, hoping the other man didn’t notice the way the tips of his ears had turned red.

Really, he scolded himself, lewd thoughts about a complete stranger on your way to a grief counselling session?

That was certainly a first for him.

Though if one were to ask Dr Mary Hodges, it was probably a healthy sign; that he was moving on from the loss of his home and livelihood some twelve months previously.

“They’re just books.” She’d made the mistake of saying in their first session together. She tended to work more so with grieving spouses and family members of the terminally ill, it had been slightly more difficult to engage with the bookseller’s devastation. It had taken half of their session to establish that the “Oscar” to which he kept referring was a signed first edition from the writer himself, not a family member with their namesake who’d perished in the fire.

If you asked Dr Hodges after half a bottle of wine (when the woman tended to be a bit more fast and loose about the term “patient confidentiality") she’d say that Mr Azira Zira Fell was deeply, unrelentingly lonely.

Oh, and his name was ridiculous. But you didn’t really need to half a bottle of wine to pry that little professional insight from her.

* * *

The lift wasn’t moving, Azira realised. His shoulders tensed when he realised that the keypad was blocked by his… devastatingly attractive companion. He tried to say something, pushing his satchel a bit further up his shoulder and managing a pathetic squeak. Neither the movement nor the noise one might associate with a drowning mouse seemed to register with the other. Why on earth was he so distracted? Surely he too had noticed that nobody had pressed a button. Azira supposed that, being the first and rightful occupant of the lift in the first place, the blame for this oversight was firmly with him.

Another curious look in the man’s direction (look at the face, not the buttocks! He chastised himself.) only confirmed his initial assessment. Devastatingly, heart-stoppingly, breathtakingly attractive. Naturally, the blond began to spiral into a gay panic.

Which is to say, in his defence, half of his brain had spontaneously gone offline. He cannot, _legally in any sensible court of law_ , be held fully accountable for whatever happened next.

The man was just a bit taller than him, with a bone structure that made Azira want to take up sculpting immediately. He had luscious red hair that stopped just short of his shoulders (oh dear that would be hard to capture in marble, wouldn’t it?) with a little snake tattoo settled on the side of his face facing Azira. The only complaint the blond could make was that he was wearing dark sunglasses that obscured his eyes, and made it impossible to tell where he was looking.

Which lead Azira to the faintest glimmer of hope that the man was watching him too. The pair of them caught in some kind of ‘love at first sight’ moment worthy of a B grade Hollywood film. He almost let himself run away with the fairytale, and would have happily (no matter how much it infringed on his appointment time) had the other man not at that moment made a small noise — something like a hum, accompanied by a slight nod of his head.

What did it mean?

Azira gripped his bag so tightly his knuckles turned white.

Was he addressing him? Of course he was, they were the only ones there. Maybe he was shy, poor dear. Azira, with his drowning mouse sounds, would be the last to fault the man for such a thing.

It had been at least a minute and they hadn’t moved. It was only a matter of time before someone called the lift and they were both pulled out of their whatever-this-was. The red head was still facing straight ahead with a somewhat placid expression on his face. Not giving anything away.

Then, finally, the lift started to move.

_Down._

Azira wasn’t going down. _Shit._ But he was scared that if he tried to reach past this man, the primal part of his brain might hijack his movements and he’d end up holding this random stranger’s hand. (He was a romantic, okay? A romantic who liked imagining moving out to South Downs with their fellow elevator occupant after 1 minute of ignoring each other.)

And then something strange happened. Something that was strange and awful and confusing and brilliant all at once. You don’t get many of them in a lifetime, do you? Azira, with his absolute incompetence at reading situations, however, had suffered through many.

The man grinned and adjusted his sunglasses slightly, causing Azira to startle.

“I— I love you.” The man spoke, with the upmost sincerity, seeming to address the reflection of the two of them in the door.

The blond felt like he’d had the air punched out of him. What was he supposed to say to that? He must have been addressing the (ex)bookseller. Had he felt their connection to? Surely this was a bit fast, Azira didn’t even know the man’s name. And for the way he dressed he might have been a criminal. Doesn’t matter, some terrible-no-good part of his brain whispered.

Let it be known, Azira was nothing if not a gentleman. He would not be the bastard who failed to hold the lift doors for someone. He would certainly not be the bastard that didn’t return such a heartfelt sentiment, no matter how peculiar the circumstances.

“I love you too.” Azira said, with more conviction than perhaps necessary. The sort of conviction that accompanied proposals and wedding vows.

The man flinched and the blond could see the horror plain on his face, even with those pesky sunglasses.

“Hang on kid,” he muttered, raising a hand to his right ear. His ear that Azira couldn’t see— Oh—

He’d really done it now, hadn’t he?

“I’m on the phone.” The man whispered grimly. 

Azira’s face burned hotter than the sun. There was a jarring ding as the doors swung open to reveal a dark maze of cubicles.

“I’m sorry my dear,” he bumbled, hopping out of the lift, “I thought— oh you know what— ah I’m sorry. I’ll just be taking the stairs.”

Somehow the stranger, with his impeccable suit and bluetooth, managed a neutral expression as the doors closed again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of Crowley's POV and the cringe-fest continues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author knows nothing about insurance claims and is not willing to learn. These men will talk about burnt books over coffee and that's that.

Crowley just wasn’t in the mood for London’s bullshit this morning. Neither was he above using his elbows to fight through the mass of pedestrians blocking the path to his office building.

“Sorry Adam, just in a bit of a hurry.” He muttered as the kid babbled in to his ear, “No, no, I want to hear all about your birthday, please. I’m so sorry I couldn’t be there. That’s what happens when your boss is an arsehole. I can say that right? You’re 11 now?” He wondered, more so for his own benefit (and conscience).

“Tell me everything that happened at your party, from start to finish.” He encouraged as he broke out in a sprint across the crowded atrium. “Hold the lift, please!” He yelled desperately, waving his briefcase.

Adam, completely ignoring the aura of stress and exasperation radiating down the phone line, started to babble on about how his parents had surprised him with a dog.

The lift’s occupant had stepped in front of the doors until Crowley entered and he remembered his manners briefly, muttering a “thanks” without even looking at the other.

Adam was quite a storyteller and more than capable of captivating an audience, even when said audience was already 5 minutes late to meeting about a particularly tricky claimant. He worked in insurance. He worked for the sidekick of the devil themselves.

Beelzebub was going to have a very few not-so-nice words to him about his tardiness.

But he couldn’t bring himself to cut off the boy’s breathless recount of how his friends had spent hours playing pirates in the forest. He hummed encouragingly when Adam paused for a second, “You still there AJ?”, the guilt of not being able to spend time with the boy almost overwhelming him.

He was so distracted he didn’t notice that the lift was moving even though he’d been to absorbed in Adam’s story to press the button to Basement 3.

“Anyway, I’ve gotta go. Dog wants to go for a walk. Love yooouuuu.” He crooned in to the speaker. Crowley fought back a laugh. Partially because, knowing Adam, he had literally called his new pet “Dog” but mostly at the little ritual they’d had going since the man had crash-landed in the young boy’s life five years ago.

“I love you.” Crowley injected sincerity that was bordering on sarcastic in his reply. It was a sort of way to keep his distance. Certainly, Adam knew the words to be true. But Crowley had always been an unfortunately fickle and inconsistent godfather, largely to the demands of his job. The “I love you” exchange was their strange way of communicating that even though Crowley was rarely there, they were still as close as they’d ever been.

“I love you too.” Came a hoarse voice, somewhat closer to Crowley’s left ear. He startled, that wasn’t part of their goodbye. Sure enough, Adam’s voice chimed in with “Sure ya do,” down the end of the line. Who was this third person in their intimate conversation.

Eyes widening in horror behind his sunglasses, he turned his body ever so slightly to catch a glimpse of the lift’s other occupant.

The other man’s eyes were wide and vulnerable, framed by white blonde curls and a blush at his cheeks worth of a Disney princess. He was looked at Crowley like the man had just proposed.

The red head’s mouth went dry.

“I’m on the phone,” he stammered out. Adam was saying something (likely a witty rejoinder to the obvious) but he’d tuned him out.

The other man’s eyes — a crystalline blue, very blue — widened like a deer in the headlights. His blush quickly shifted from a rosy pink to a fiery red and he looked like his was about to collapse on the spot.

“I— ah,” He had began to stammer out an apology, tripping out of the lift, muttering something about taking the stairs.

Crowley, mortified for the man and yet vaguely curious, just stood there in shock as the doors closed once again.

* * *

“What the fuck?” Beelzebub was standing in the foyer of Ninth Circle, tapping their foot angrily.

“You can say that again,” Crowley mumbled as he stalked out of the lift. Of course they took the invitation.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

“Apparently courting strangers with out of context love confessions.”

Beelzebub was wise enough not to ask.

“Well, we’ve gone and had the Fell case review without you.” They grabbed him by the ear and Crowley yelped, but allowed himself to be dragged through the maze of desks by a ball of fury half his size. “And we’ve come to the conclusion we’re going to need to negotiate with the claimant in person. Because you were kind enough to abstain from attending, you’ll be the one meeting with the claimant.”

Crowley grumbled, but had to concede it was likely fair. He was unceremoniously deposited at his desk, ear smarting. A large file landed on the messy desk a moment later.

“As soon as possible,” Beez growled, “And take off those bloody sunglasses.”

“Take off those bloody sunglasses,” Crowley mimicked and kept them resolutely glued to his face.

“Bastard,” Been muttered, walking away.

Come to think of it, maybe his boss would be nicer to him if he stopped sassing them.

Not about to happen.

He sighed at the massive file before him, interaction in the lift all but forgotten as he set to work sifting through the immensely boring and pedantic catalogue of “priceless” (claimant’s words, not his) books that had been lost in a freak fire.

This idiot thought he could come to an insurance company and use words like “priceless”. Crowley had been in the business long enough to know everything had a price.

* * *

“You’re late,”

Azira flopped down dramatically on Mary’s couch, the second uncharacteristic action in as many minutes. He’d tried to wipe his brain clean of the embarrassment by taking the stairs two at a time. Instead his stamina had only gotten him a flight and a half before he resigned to wait for the lift. (Mercifully empty)

“I told a man in the lift that I loved him.” He blurted out. Ah, we were going to keep that one a secret. But the embarrassment was bubbling over, not helped by his subsequently poor athletic performance.

Mary couldn’t help but smirk.

“And?”

“AND? I told a random stranger in the lift that I loved him.” The blond threw his hands up angrily. “He said “I love you” and I wasn’t about to be bloody rude about it and reject him so I said “I love you too”. Turns out he was on the phone. Probably talking to his wife.”

Mary caught the bitterness in that statement.

“So?” She said mildly. “You made a mistake. You’ll probably never see him again.” She could go down the route of placating Azira’s anxiety, but there seemed to be something else the man wasn’t telling her.

The blond turned bright red and mumbled something incomprehensible.

“What was that?”

“I wouldn’t mind seeing him again!” He burst out, “If I hadn’t gone and put my bloody foot in it!”

“Are you saying that, had you not had that awkward encounter, you would’ve asked him out before getting out of the lift?”

Azira frowned. No, that was alarmingly bold and decidedly unlike him. Mary knew that.

“No, but I would have thought about it.” He defended.

Mary put down her pen and paper and sat back in her chair.

“So this is another example of you wishing for things to happen on their own? I am attracted to this man, I hope the universe asks him to get a drink with me.”

The blond pouted and, for the millionth time that year, wondered if there was a single counsellor in Soho that would stop putting holes in his worldview.

“Looks like the universe did you a favour,” she added, “You’ve made an impression now. Stated you intention from the get-go.”

Azira snorted.

“You can’t be serious.” His counsellor shrugged and they moved on.

As he was settling the bill a phone call came in from an unknown number.

Stepping away from the desk, he answered politely (even the telemarketers deserved polite)

“A Z Fell speaking, how may I help you?”

The man on the other end of the line seemed to pause for a second, before clearing his throat.

“This is Anthony Crowley calling from Ninth Circle Insurance, I think I may be the one to help you, actually.”

“Oh! Lovely I was wondering when someone was going to contact me about my books. I do want to find replacements as soon as possible. See some of them were actually first editions—“

(Rather than interrupting, Crowley put the phone on speaker and played a round of candy crush until the man realised that he’d commandeered the conversation.)

“Ah, sorry about that, tend to ramble.”

Crowley grunted in reply.

“No worry, we tend to ramble about the things we love.” He cringed at the wording, briefly reminded of his earlier encounter. “I was wondering if we could speak in person. I need some more detailed descriptions and the like.”

He could hear the other man hesitate.

“Oh, I am a bit busy over the next few days.”

“No problem,” Crowley offered, “Just swing by my office whenever you can. Won’t take more than 15 minutes, trust me, I’ve been doing this a long time.”

He read out their address from his letterhead (remembering things is for nerds) and the claimant let out a small gasp.

“Oh, my dear, I’m actually quite nearby. Say, did you want to talk about my books over coffee? There’s this amazing little cafe down the road that I was going to pop into on my way home.”

Crowley could sense the man was at risk of beginning to natter away again, so he interrupted with a short “Yes, of course.”

They arranged to meet in the building’s atrium in ten minutes, leaving Crowley wondering just how “nearby” the other was. Maybe he worked in the building?

He hadn’t told him what he looked like. At that hour there weren’t many people hanging around in the atrium, just the desk staff and a security guard. Surely the claimant would be able to spot him. He lounged against a wall and pulled out his phone to wait. After five minutes, the lift sounded and he found himself instinctively looking up as a man with a satchel and halo of white curls exited.

Christ on a cracker.

The man stopped dead when he spotted Crowley, looking around wildly as if hoping there was another insurance agent lurking somewhere.

“Anthony?” He squeaked, face paling under the fluorescent light.

Crowley nodded slowly, wanting to shrivel up and die on behalf of the both of them.

It was almost as if God Herself was conspiring against him.

And enjoying Herself immensely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided this is gonna be 4 chapters (I'm terrible at making my one-shots one-shots haha). Hang around, I promise it only gets less awkward from here!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, so Crowley's basically in love with this random stranger now. Anathema argues that dumb & dumber should just get together. Something with a raccoon.

“So we meet again.” The insurer plastered on an awkward smile as the man (Azira, blond, habit of making love confessions to strangers) approached.

 _Stupid, stupid._ Crowley silently wished the ground would open up and swallow him straight down to hell.

Though, based on their current position, the ground would more likely deposit him back at Ninth Circle Insurers.

Fitting.

The blond laughed nervously, now so pale he might just pass out. Crowley felt his muscles tense, as if preparing to catch him. Surprisingly chivalrous of him. Probably some side effect of the emotional wringer he was currently being squeezed through.

“The cafe’s just this way.” Azira motioned and they began to walk. The red head instinctively shortened his strides to stay in line with the man.

The atmosphere was so uncomfortable Crowley found himself unconsciously grinding his teeth. He could fix this. Just explain who he was talking to. Oh it was just my godson (not that Adam was ever a ‘just’), for some reason he felt the frantic need to clarify that he was not talking to a significant other. That he was very, very available.

Come on Anthony, a good looking stranger accidentally says they love you and suddenly you want to ask them on a date? Pull yourself together, this is a client meeting, with a client, not a date. 

If he held the door open for the blond, well, that was just professional courtesy.

He managed to hold it in until they were seated with their drinks. The pretence of their meeting sitting between them in a worn yellow folder. Azira was still avoiding eye contact (and yes, maybe Crowley had an unfair advantage with the sunglasses) so the insurer blurted out

“It was my godson. Adam— his name is Adam. ’S his birthday today. So that’s why, that’s who—“ Why were his hands shaking?

Luckily, the other man seemed to soften.

“That’s so sweet,” he sounded sincere, “I’m sorry dear fellow. I had a bit of time to think about it and, well, it’s just that painfully British thing isn’t it? I thought you were talking to me and, oddly enough, I thought it’d be rude not to return the sentiment.”

Crowley couldn’t help but let out a bark-like laugh.

“Are you telling me that you were trying to be polite?”

_Who was this guy?_

The blond nodded bashfully.

“Well, maybe you’d been going through a rough time and you didn’t have anyone close to you. Everyone needs to feel loved.” He said defensively.

“My god,” Crowley’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, “You’re a literal angel.”

They finished their drinks with a surprising absence of awkwardness, only realising when they stood up to leave that they’d neglected the contents of the folder entirely.

Beez was going to kill him.

“Oh shoot,” they both stared awkwardly at the paperwork.

“I’m sorry, I’ve completely wasted your time,” the blond fretted, “I’m always ruining things. My apologies.”

Crowley grit his teeth at the stream of apologies. It was his job to get the information. It wasn’t the angel’s fault he was so…

He’d finish that thought later.

“I’ll take it home with me, fill out all the questions and then drop it off at your office.”

No, that didn’t suit Crowley. Not in the slightest.

“My boss is going to literally flay me alive if they don’t get these on their desk in the morning.” He peered over his sunglasses in an attempt to convey how deadly serious he was being.

“Well, I can get them done tonight, if you wanted to pick them up in the morning.” There was a slight hesitation in Azira’s voice.

“D’you want to get breakfast? I know a place that does great croissants.” Crowley offered hopefully. The blond beamed.

“Splendid!” Crowley’s heart skipped.

“I’ve got you mobile number in my file, I’ll text you the details. See ya.” He waved awkwardly as they parted ways.

It took a few minutes for the blind panic to set in. What exactly did he think he was doing? Did he just ask this man on a date? Because they didn’t get around to talking business, was today technically a date? In a split second, he’s turned on heel, heading for his car rather than back to the office. Sending a quick text to Beez “food poisoning at lunch going home ta x” he pulled away from the curb and headed home to stew (and frantically google a place that does good croissants).

* * *

Crowley tried his best to get himself together before his friend arrived at the restaurant. ‘His best’ amounted to laying his head down on the table, much to the disgust of the waitstaff, to watch the door mournfully.

“’Nathema,” he croaked when the woman swept into the place. Within seconds she’d descended on their table, dragging Crowley to an upright position by the scruff of his neck.

“Wow, full drama queen mode. This really is something.” Her tone was a mixture of amusement and concern. In his invitation Crowley had offered to pick up the bill if she could get through the whole conversation without laughing at the ridiculous situation he’d got himself in to. Scratch that, this was all the daft bookseller’s fault. If he hadn’t have said anything in the first place, Crowley never would have noticed him in the elevator. Likely their first meeting would have been in the atrium, where he could admire those soft curls and sparkling blue eyes without the stomach-turning embarrassment that now plagued him.

“Drink,” he groaned, and the waiter appeared as if summoned. (Actually all of the waitstaff now had a running pool on what was going on for the man. The waiter who’d approached had put his money on the red head already being smashed — nobody sober walks like that — and was getting excited to prove his point and refuse to serve the man more alcohol. Sadly, as he drew closer, he decided that the customer was likely sad not smashed and cursed the thought of having to give Tilly his tips from tonight.)

They ordered some wine and Crowley made them wait until it arrived (and his glass was drained) before recounting the whole blasted situation to his friend. Anathema struggled to keep a neutral expression at parts, but the promise of a good dinner and the haunted look on Crowley’s face tampered down the desire to howl with laughter.

“I can see what the problem is.” She said thoughtfully as he finished talking and went back to wallowing in self-pity. A waitress (Tilly) came around to take their order.

“Hold that thought,” Anathema ordered for the both of them and turned back to her friend, “Okay, so the problem is you think he’s cute.”

That was almost preposterous enough for the man to raise his head and glare at the woman. Almost.

He was tired and he was sad and, as usual, Anathema was kinda right.

“Sad and alone isn’t a good look on you.”

“Anathema, he’s not my type. I’m cool and suave—“

“Last New Years you got drunk, mistook a raccoon for a stray dog, took it to the animal shelter and then cried when they told you to let it go.”

‘Yeah, but—“

“Oh, and remember last week when you had to call Newt to help you get out of some skinny jeans you’d tried on in Levi’s rather than admit to the shop assistant you were stuck? You sulked in that change room for 45 minutes making up excuses until he rescued you!”

“My arse in those jeans—“

“Your arse didn’t fit in those jeans! That’s why my boyfriend was tasked with shoehorning you out of them. He hasn’t been the same since.”

Crowley mumbled in to his drink something that didn’t sound at all remorseful, Anathema took that as an invitation to continue.

“Don’t get me started on Jasper!”

“Oh, now that’s unfair. Don’t bring him into it.”

“Anthony Crowley, you are the only man I know who’s been kicked out of a nightclub for asking people if they wanted to see the “snake in your pants” and there was actually a snake in your pocket.”

Crowley had to laugh, the joke still hadn’t gone stale.

“It was hilarious, Ana. You loved telling Newt about it.”

“Dork,”

“Hang on, what were we talking about again?” Crowley flagged down a waiter for a refill, having totally lost track of the conversation as it devolved in to Crowley-bashing.

“You said that this gay blond disaster wasn’t compatible with whatever disaster direction your life is currently heading in.”

“’S a surprise,” Crowley muttered.

“To you even.” Anathema pointed out, now stealing chips off of her friend’s plate. “But if you’re going to be the idiot who cries over a feral racoon called Jimbo—“

(“— his name is Jangles.” Crowley sniffed)

Anathema sighed, pushing their plates aside and grabbing his hands.

“The point I’m trying to make is: buck up. Maybe if you get yourself a beau, you can bounce your ridiculous ideas off of each other. Besides, the one thing I remember clearly about that night was you standing in the skip holding Jangles like out of the Lion King and yelling something like “I love you my son.” It seems you’ve both been there.”

“I was drunk and that was a raccoon,” Crowley hissed, leaning in. “Not a fucking stranger in a lift.”

Anathema quirked an eyebrow, far from intimidated by her friend.

“They were both misunderstandings, one slightly less ridiculous than the other.” She spread her hands, gesturing to the diners around her. “Do you want to share with the class and then they take a vote?”

Crowley scowled.

“Have you had your fun? Can we leave now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Their reunion was a pain in the arse to write, probably because I'm too cringe-phobic myself. Anyways, so Crowley fell arse over teakettle in love in 2 seconds flat too and is now going to spend some time denying it. Slow burn baby burn (as slow as a 4 chapter fic can get at least).  
> I've written this all in under 24 hours, might take a break to go back to personal writing projects but I'll finish it off in the next few days hopefully! x


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> content warning: mega cringe.

The best croissanterie (yes, that’s a thing) in Soho was a hole in the wall place called ‘Les Etoiles’. It all sounded very pretentious and fussy and Crowley had happily texted the address to the other without opening their website.

This was his first mistake.

Well, no, maybe that was his second mistake for the first was one of omission.

(Or arguably idiocy. 

His trademark brand, if Anathema were consulted. Inevitably, during the crisis, she was.)

See, Crowley couldn’t tell you his work’s address. Knowing things was a bit overrated. What was the point of having a smartphone if not to do the remembering of things for you? He did not own a calendar, nor a planner, nor have any concept of planning beyond scribbling things on scraps of paper that later became Jasper’s bedding. Because he hadn’t remembered to buy that either.

So when the man woke up that morning to his phone quacking away, he had a vague inclination that it was probably a Thursday. That’s all he could tell you.

Until he stumbled in to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

There was something written on his forehead. He squinted at the mirror, tilting his head until his brain reluctantly deciphered the scrawl:

AZIRA

The night before came flooding back to him. Anathema had left him at the restaurant after a frantic call from Newt (who’d been kicked off a bus after breaking all of the Oyster readers) and Crowley had ordered a few more drinks.

He poured his soul out to the waitstaff, and then some. Likely divulging enough private information about Ninth Circle to sink the entire company faster than the Titanic. Somewhere along the way he’d started fretting about seeing Azira again. The waitress (Tilly) had been beside herself hearing the story of their first meeting, and tried to get him to promise not to flake out the day after.

‘I have a memory like one of those things with the holes,’ he’d whined, ‘I’ll probably turn up at work tomorrow and get through half the day before remembering we were meeting for breakfast. Knowing him, and I mean I don’t but he’s just so…’ Crowley sighed, ‘He’d probably still be sitting at the cafe at 3pm waiting for me and then when I turned up he’d apologise. He’s just like that.’

‘So your concern is that you’ll forget?’ The waitress clarified.

‘No! I don’t think I’d be able to forget. But also, I’m scared I’ll chicken out.’ His head hurt. He downed some more wine and pouted at the teenager, who’d taken out her notepad and marker.

‘You could make a bet with me.’ A sly smile graced the girl’s face. ‘I have to say, I’m a pretty good punter, but I’d love it if you prove me wrong.’ Crowley gave her a questioning look.

The waitress pulled out a handful of notes from her pocket.

‘I won these betting on why you were acting like a weirdo earlier.’

Crowley spluttered, but didn’t have the energy to put up a fight.

‘I bet you this,’ she pushed the crinkled paper, ‘that you’ll flake like a little bitch.’

A challenge. This girl reminded him too much of Anathema to even consider turning it down. The waitress didn’t even know his name but the smug look on her face would haunt Crowley for all eternity if she was right.

‘You’ve got a deal.’ To her surprise, Crowley grabbed the marker pen and handed it to her. ‘But I’m going to make sure I don’t forget.”

‘Chicken out,’

‘Can you write something on my forehead, so that I remember the stakes in the morning?’

‘What do you want me to write?’

Crowley paused for a moment. Given his past escapades whilst intoxicated, it shouldn’t come as a surprise what he asked the waitress to write across his forehead in permanent marker.

Looking in the mirror now, the redhead swore off drinking for good.

It was 7:30am on a busy Soho street and Anthony Crowley was wearing a fedora.

As unimpressed as Anathema was to be receiving a call so early, her tone changed from disgruntled to amused as soon as Crowley started blabbering on.

‘Hold on, I’m putting you on speaker. Newt, honey, come over here, Crowley’s doing dumb shit again.’

‘It wasn’t. I was drunk.’ Crowley hissed through gritted teeth, scrubbing furiously at his forehead. ‘I’ve tried make up remover, and soap, and acetone—‘

‘Shit, Crowley, don’t put that stuff near your skin!’

‘It’s still not fully coming off.’ He whined, surveying his red-raw face in the mirror. There was the faint outline of the name still visible under the irritation. ‘What do they put in those things these days?’

‘Probably one of the cheap knock off markers. They’re full of random chemicals that’ve been discarded from the factories in China.’ Newt piped up cheerfully, having cottoned on fairly quickly (thanks to 2 years experience with the redhead).

‘I’m going to be late!’ Crowley screeched.

‘Just put on a hat, dummy.’ Anathema sighed, from the other end of the line she could hear the man muttering ‘a hat, a hat, a hat’ accompanied by a faint rustling.

‘I only have a hat from a stupid dress up party,’

Thus we arrive back at the following: It was 7:30am on a busy Soho street and Anthony Crowley was wearing a fedora.

He was about to discover his second mistake.

He’d only been a few minutes late to their scheduled meeting time, bursting through the cafe door with one hand protectively holding his hat over his forehead.

He was overwhelmed by… pink.

‘Wha—?’ He looked around wildly. Azira was sitting awkwardly at one of the tables near the entrance, and gave him an equally awkward wave. Now Crowley could see why: the whole place was decorated with chains of hearts and garish decorations, the tables sprinkled with pink confetti, Azira’s discomfort half shrouded behind a large cupid centrepiece on the little table.

Before Crowley could react a waitress swanned up to him, beaming.

‘Good morning, are you here to dine with this handsome gentleman?’ _Wow, she was really overdoing it_ thought Crowley. Though he couldn’t help but blush slightly as she lead him to Azira’s table.

‘For valentine’s day we’re doing a lovely selection of lovers’ croissants.’ She pronounced it as pretentiously as one would expect of a place that called itself a croissanterie.

Crowley cringed.

‘Valentine’s day.’ He muttered through gritted teeth, avoiding eye contact with his dining partner.

‘Didn’t you know?’ Azira asked mildly ‘My dear boy, don’t you have a calendar?’

Crowley wilted, shaking his head.

By now, the redhead was certain he was on God's blacklist, the cherry on top was the way his hat chose this moment to fall pathetically to the ground.

‘What on earth is that on your forehead?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't resist sending Crowley deeper into the hole of disaster. He's had it coming since that incident with the raccoon. Going to add on another chapter to wrap up seeing as how this one was a bit of a (let's add more cringe rather than resolve things for these walking disasters).


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter got too long so I'm splitting it. Here's the train wreck conclusion part 1! Stay tuned.

He was obviously smitten with the man.

Within seconds of laying eyes on Anthony Crowley, the blond had already had innumerable improper thoughts.

Within minutes he'd made a startling confession, which he now suspected had at least a semblance of truth about it, despite the whole misunderstanding.

Now Mr Crowley had asked him to a quaint cafe on Valentine's Day in what was a most certainly platonic and indeed very business like manner. It couldn't be anything else.

How did Azira Zira Fell feel?

About as confused as that question probably left you, dear reader.

In short, he wasn’t quite sure and needed to go back and pick apart the situation in order to make sense of it.

He could only do so with the help of alcohol and a close friend. In the relative absence of the latter, Azira deferred to the IT guy whom he’d employed to digitalise his catalogue. After said IT guy had nearly set fire to the bookshop (please note: nearly) and then breathed in to a paper bag for half an hour, Azira had taken pity on the poor nervous wreck and taken him out for a pint. Turns out Newton Pulsifer was an okay guy when giving electronics a wide berth. Returning to “nearly”, he had a legitimate alibi for the actual blaze, some months later, in being in attendance at an air base in the country. Apparently the government had kept tabs on his disruptive shenanigans enough to desperately scramble for the man’s help when some nuclear weaponry was accidentally engaged. But that’s all hearsay, of course.

Anyway, what matter here is that Azira had decided to refer to his only slightly-less-emotionally-stunted sort-of-friend for advice. He was waiting patiently at the usual pub for the man’s arrival when he got the call.

“I didn’t touch it. I barely looked at it!” Newt whined as the officer scribbled on her notepad. Azira arrived on the scene just in time to hear her next question.

“Did you board the bus with any intent of malaise towards London Central Bus Company or any of its affiliates?’

“No,” Newt paused, “Well, the bus was 10 minutes late so I was kinda annoyed.” Azira rolled his eyes and grabbed his sort-of-friend by the shoulder, steering him away.

“Of course he didn’t,” the blond dismissed, “What a preposterous question. I don’t think there’s any need to hold up this gentleman any longer with what is obviously a gross equipment failure. You should be talking with the makers of those blip-blip machines.” He gestured at the card reader on the now abandoned bus. It was smoking slightly.

Azira didn’t know the machine’s name. He knew them by the noise they made when he tapped his Oyster card, usually whilst lamenting the loss of conductors and tickets of the paper variety.

The blond dragged Newt away from the officer, radiating such righteous fury that the woman just watched them go helplessly.

“I thought you’d promised to stay away from buses.” Azira sniffed, releasing the man’s arm once they were away from the crowd.

“Anathema’s catching up with a friend and needed the car tonight.” He said miserably, “She said I could bring you along and we could all meet at the same place, but her friend’s going through a crisis too and can be a bit of a drama queen about things. They’re probably going to end up super drunk and go dumpster diving again or something.”

“Again?” Azira pursed his lips and frowned at the mental image of Anathema and her friend hitching up their long witchy skirts and wading through London’s trash. “What do they look for?” He asked, morbid curiosity getting the better of him.

Newt shrugged, “They seem to have a soft spot for raccoons.”

“Oh dear, right. Maybe it’s best if we’re never acquainted.” Azira was man enough to admit that he was sacred of the little beasts and, by extension, Anathema’s friend and her fixation.

They settled at the bar, Azira seeming somewhat more relaxed than when they’d spoken on the phone. Maybe hearing that some people dealt with their crises, whatever they may be, by getting drunk and hunting for trash cats made him feel a little more settled in his chosen coping strategies.

A nice wine and a friendly ear.

“So, what happened?”

* * *

“How many skips?” Newt asked jokingly as Anathema returned home, noticeably rubbing her temples the way any long suffering friend of Crowley’s tended to after an evening of crisis-mode-Crowley (though after hearing the details Anathema would call this particular incident peak gay-panic-Crowley.)

She rolled her eyes, “He’s not drunk. Well, he wasn’t when I left. Just got his panties in a twist ‘cause some cute guy accidentally said something a bit forward in the lift this morning.” She wasn’t going to recount the details, on account of how painful it would be to recount. But then Newt had frozen, in an excellent impression of the computer he’d been trying to turn on for the last quarter of an hour.

“Cute guy? Like cherubic, baby faced, soft blond curls kind of cute or does Crowley only rate goths?”

Anathema raised her eyebrow quizzically. Then the realisation hit her.

“No way,” she wheezed, clutching the countertop to keep herself upright. “This is too good. Him and him. I’m just annoyed I never thought to introduce them before. But, oh, then we would get to witness this absolutely delightful comedy of errors.”

She wiped a solitary tear of mirth.

“Make sure your phone’s on and recharged. I don’t want to miss a minute of this rom-com train-wreck.”

* * *

Talking with Newton had been very enlightening. Not because his friend had said anything enlightening, per say, but because he was the perfect listener for Azira to vent his anxieties to. He would have been second to Mary except she tended to take great pleasure in weaponising offhanded comments that the man made, trying to dredge up the angst of his childhood, oh and she was sixty pounds an hour. Newt provided his counselling service for the going rate of a pint at whatever establishment they chose.

After bouncing theories off of his trusty wall, Azira had landed on a explanation that sat comfortably within his own self-schema and since Mary wasn’t there he damn-well wasn’t about to start scrutinising it.

Mr Crowley was a busy, refined, organised and decidedly heterosexual business man who had seen the bookseller’s soft midriff and decided that the best way to let him down — tell him that his company would not provide recompense for his losses — was over a good croissant. The fact it was Valentine’s day was purely a coincidence and the blond should not be so worked up about a business meeting. Newt, who was still ruminating on his latest run-in with technology, failed to hear anything the other was saying as he stared forlornly into his glass. In the end he’d only had just enough scraps of the conversation to realise later that Anathema and Crowley were on the other side of this mess.

* * *

Just because Azira had decided that their meeting didn’t mean anything, did not make it any less awkward arriving at Les Etoiles on Thursday Morning.

“Are you waiting for your sweetheart?” Cooed the waitress as she found him a table for two.

“Errr— No—“ he fumbled for someway to explain why his insurance agent was meeting him for a Pain au Chocolat in Mayfair and drew a blank. The waitress lost interest in the bumbling man pretty quickly when she realised that there wasn’t going to be a surprise proposal on the cards that she’d get to gossip about to the afternoon staff.

He’d only begun to think of escape strategies when the door opened and Mr Crowley slipped in to the cafe. He was wearing a svelte black suit and shirt ensemble, with a matching black hat. It was a very welcome addition, in Azira’s opinion, making the redhead look like an undercover spy — like in the London Blitz — and now Azira’s mind was cantering off in a direction he’d very much forbidden it from going. He gave a small wave to his companion as he bullied his thoughts back in to line.

Professional. Straight. Perceptive. Refined. All angles and lines. Probably a wife and 2.5 kids situation too.

Absolutely mortified.

“It’s Valentine’s day?” he said slowly, clutching his hat to his head.

Moments later the hat was slipping sideways… falling… and the bookseller’s eyes were drawn to the faint grey outline on the man’s forehead.

“What’s that?” He found himself asking, though he could very much read it. Even at a distance.

The question was a bit more of a “why” than a “what.”

The agent (insurance, not secret) groaned and slumped bonelessly into the chair opposite.

“This is like really embarrassing.” He mumbled, not even bothering to pick up his hat from where it had fallen.

Azira couldn’t help but let out a breathless laugh, hoping whatever had possessed the man to write his name on his forehead was enough of a story to restore them to even footing. To erase his own painful mistake.

“Oh, but embarrassing seems to be our currency, is it not? Do tell, dear.”

Whatever the blond had been expecting, it wasn’t what followed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, sorry for the slow update, this was a bitch to write and I had grad school applications to prioritise.  
> This is more cringe than I ever thought I'd write. Thanks for following along, hope this disaster has a satisfying disaster of a conclusion for ya!

Crowley sighed and buried his face in his hands, and only partially to obscure the other man’s name scrawled across his forehead.

Whilst the redhead was collapsing in on himself the waitress had shuffled back over, sensing something was amiss and likely hoping it to be gossip worthy.

But Azira caught her eye and handed back their menus (one carefully pried out from under Crowley’s pathetic form).

“We’ll take two almond croissants, a hot cocoa, a black coffee and…” the bookseller paused, as if considering his options, “some privacy please dear.”

Sadly, as Crowley was currently incapacitated, he missed the tone and the telltale quirk of an eyebrow that would have tipped him off as to how much of a bastard the blond could be.

There were a few beats of silence between them, before Crowley made a pitiful whine of pain and started talking at the tablecloth.

“I had a bit to drink last night and was worried I’d forget our appointment. My boss will kill me if I don’t have the paperwork done.” He reiterated, in a vague approximation of the truth. It was true, Beelzebub would skin him alive and give him two weeks babysitting his hell-mates Hastur and Ligur if he failed them again. His job would be to make sure they only photocopied offical documents rather than goofing off and photocopying… other things.

Crowley shivered involuntarily. _Nope_ , not going to be in that situation again.

And he had had a bit to drink.

And he was worried about missing the appointment.

And if he left out that the worry stemmed from missing those beautiful curls rather than the fear of repercussions from his boss, well, he was allow to omit certain details.

“And so this was the best solution?” Azira could hardly suppress a grin.

“Well, no. In retrospect I could have set an alarm on my phone.” Crowley snapped.

It was bleeding obvious that _he’d fucked up_. Anathema was right (as usual); suave was more of what the man aspired to rather than embodied on the daily. Making snap decisions that were usually poor in the long run was his signature style and it was painful to have to sit here and explain himself. From the moment his hat hit the ground (arguably sooner) he was doomed. Doomed to let yet another potential relationship slip through his fingers all because he was wild, and chaotic, and all-in-all too much. It was only in the interest of filling in these forms and saving his skin from Beez that he didn’t just flip the table and leg it right there and then.

Maybe the torment showed on his face, because Azira seemed to soften. He reached his hand over and placed it on top of Crowley’s.

“Is this okay?” He asked tentatively.

The redhead made a choking noise but didn’t make to move his hand.

“Everyone makes silly decisions when they’re intoxicated.” He said reassuringly. Crowley opened his mouth to argue that it was just a few drinks, before realising that minimising his blood alcohol content probably would serve him well in this narrative.

“Why just yesterday my friend was telling me about his wife and her friend and I—“ blue eyes twinkled in amusement and concern, “Well, I must say I was quite shocked to hear that they make a habit of adopting feral racoons.”

“It wasn’t feral,” Crowley replied on reflex, moving his hand off the table. _Oh, shit. Shit. Shit. Shit._

This was impossible? Ineffable? That scheming witch probably had something to do with this!

Azira, however, was not joining the right dots and brokered a weak smile at Crowley’s reaction.

“Another raccoon advocate?” He huffed out a laugh and sat back in his chair, “Well, perhaps Anathema should introduce you to her young lady friend. You sure would have some interesting dates.”

Crowley was too busy gaping like a fish to note the hint of bitterness in the other’s words.

If only Anthony Crowley could stop time.

He really urgently needed to scream at the heavens, to God, to Satan, whomever was behind this messed up torment. Though he did have to credit them, he didn’t realise one could condense so much embarrassment into one 24 hour period.

“Are you okay, Crowley?” Came a voice, and the man realised he was in fact staring at the ceiling, making a faint high-pitched whine (which was likely the closest to a scream he could get away with in civilised society.)

Crowley snapped back to earth and refocused to find Azira - bless his soul - looking genuinely worried.

“No, I’m fine,” _Might as well just clear the air. Clear the air, sign the papers, get the fuck out of this country—_

There was a clink as the waitress set out their drinks and croissants, barely pausing before she hurried away, giving the blond a fearful look on her retreat.

Crowley eyed the coffee apprehensively, working out logistics.

He could skull the coffee, cram the croissant in to his mouth and skedaddle, drop a business card that Azira could fax the completed paperwork to ASAP and risk his hide becoming Beez’s new leather jacket.

The alternative would be Azira pursuing this conversation of setting him up with himself. Or just Azira pursuing any conversation when Crowley was so embarrassed he wanted the earth to swallow him whole.

 **First ideas are always the best ideas.**

\- That’s the terrible, no good motto of serial avoidance artists like Crowley.

Why sit and stew in this terrible, no good situation for a second longer debating your options when you can just scull your coffee and leave with your tail between you legs?

There were, of course, a few finer details that Crowley’s impulse driven brain missed. The most important of which:

Coffee, when served in cafes, is typically served hot. In fact, absence of heat is often grounds for a refund.

“What the _fuck_?” His dining mate exclaimed as Crowley gave a yelp of pain and sprayed hot coffee on the tablecloth.

Such an utterance from perfect, cherubic lips that loved to form soft ‘my dear’’sonly doubled Crowley’s distress.

“Sorry,” he wheezed as Azira tutted and begun trying to salvage their croissants.

“Really my dear, did it ever occur to you that you go too fast?” He said disapprovingly. Crowley made a strangled noise.

Clear the air, sign the papers, get the fuck out of this country—

The words were all tripping out before the coffee dripping down his chin grew cold.

“It’s me. It was a me. Not a her. Bloody hell, I didn’t know you knew Anathema and Newt.” He babbled. Azira just looked perplexed.

“I’m raccoon guy that Newt was telling you about. I’m a serial screw up. I like to think I’m cool and collected but any decision I make when sober is painful and any others I make when drinking are bordering on idiotic.” Wow. Is this how confessional feels? Crowley felt ever-so-slightly lighter. “And I was being very uncool last night, ‘cause you surprised me. You’re not who I thought you were. You’re— you’re—“ he swore and took off his coffee-flecked sunglasses, “you’re amazing, Angel. And I had one shot. Okay, a fair few shots. Either way I didn’t want to fuck up this meeting, ‘cause I think you’re cool.” He finished somewhat lamely.

The blond blushed slightly, engaging in Crowley’s tradition of addressing the tablecloth to reply, “I thought you were pretty cool too. Are. Are pretty cool. Still are.”

Crowley’s eyes widened and he shook his head, as if trying to prevent the compliment from taking in his brain.

“Nah, I’ve royally embarrassed myself.” He said dejectedly, picking up his soggy croissant and squishing it with frustration. ‘Let’s just get this damn paperwork done and you’ll never have to see me again.”

There was silence. So much silence that Crowley wondered if Azira had already got up and left. When he looked up, however, the blond was beaming at him.

“What?” He touched his face self-consciously. The bookseller was staring at him. “Have I got something—“ he broke off. Yes, he did. They’d already covered that.

“No my dear boy,” Azira leaned forward and put his hand dangerously close to the other’s. “I was just wondering if you remember the circumstances upon which we met.”

Crowley frowned, unable to recollect much but the searing pain of scalding coffee and the mental reminder to ruin Anathema’s life.

“I said I loved you.” He prompted, “I made the biggest, most ridiculous faux-pas in the history of faux-pas’s.” For once he seemed somewhat relaxed about it.

“And I was glad, that I’d never see you again. Not because I didn’t want to. Believe me I did. Just that I was so mortified that I thought I’d die on the spot if I ever ran in to you again. Then I did, and it was the worst moment of my life finding out you were my insurance agent. For about three seconds, then you started talking and I thought“hey, maybe it’s not that big a deal,” which is a monumental thought for someone life me to have. I spend a lot of time in therapy for anxiety.” He offered.

Crowley nodded slowly, gripping the stained tablecloth tightly, unable to believe what was happening. It almost seemed like acceptance? Like a truce?

“Then you start metaphorically tripping over your own feet too and I thought: hey, maybe we’re even?”

A truce.

Crowley ducked his head and mumbled, “I don’t normally trip over my own feet that much. S’just you took me by surprise.”

“Oh?”

Truely even.

“Forgive me for going too fast, but I think I might grow to love you too.” The redhead said jokingly. It was there, it was real, if the other wanted to take it. A proposal of sorts (though not the one the waitress was holding out for).

Azira chuckled.

“Hardly too fast my dear, I was the one who said it first. Did you perhaps want to go out sometime?”

Crowley visibly blushed.

“I’d like that,” he said softly.

They stood up from the table as one and Crowley fished a wad of notes out of his wallet. Enough to cover the cost of the meal and replace the damaged linens.

They were nearly at the door, walking shoulder to shoulder in a way quite unbecoming of the business relationship that Crowley had once been so intent to save, when it struck him.

“Oh _fuck_ , the paperwork!”


End file.
